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Gris I Know

Ed Grisamore, winner of 2010 Will Rogers Humanitarian Aware, shares a laugh with Durwood "Mr. Doubletalk" Fincher

Ed Grisamore, winner of 2010 Will Rogers Humanitarian Aware, shares a laugh with Durwood “Mr. Doubletalk” Fincher


My perfect morning has been to imagine a man drinking his coffee, holding his newspaper in his hands and telling his wife: “Marge, you’ve got to read Gris today.”

I am a storyteller. In the South, we’re all storytellers. It’s what we do.

People have been saying so many nice things about me these past two weeks, I swear I must have died and gone to my own funeral.

I used to say I was lucky because I have always known I wanted to be a writer. A man corrected me. “You’re not lucky,” he said. “You’re blessed.”

In the second grade, I published my own family newspaper on Blue Horse notebook paper. I would write the stories and headlines. I even did my own cartoon strip. Then I would staple it together and sell it to my parents for 10 cents. It was my first paying job in journalism. My mother saved every edition.

When I first started at The Telegraph in 1978, we typed in triple space on IBM Selectric typewriters. “Cut and paste” meant cut and paste. I can still smell those glue pots and hear the sounds of the pneumatic tubes being whisked to the composing room. When we went out to cover stories, we had to search for pay phones to call the office.

My wife, Delinda, claims my mind never stops working. There have been many mornings when I would wake up and start writing in my head before my feet touched the floor.

When your story makes it on somebody’s refrigerator door, that’s the highest honor in journalism.

After nine books, I’ve been asked if I am ever going to write fiction. Do I have the great American novel in me? I’ve done stories on a dog that answered the telephone, a preacher who delivered sermons from a coffin and a lady who has Elvis Presley’s big toenail on display in her museum. Why would I want to write fiction? I couldn’t make that stuff up.

I have spent my entire career interviewing people. But one of my greatest thrills was being interviewed on the radio by Larry Munson before a Georgia football game.

Every time I had a speaking engagement, I would ask all the veterans to stand up and be recognized and thank them for their service to our country.

Always look for the extraordinary in the ordinary.

When folks urged me to run for political office, I would tell them I was too honest to be a politician. I did, however, get a few write-in votes for lieutenant governor one year.

I still have my old pica pole. That’s the way we used to measure copy and photographs. Six picas equals one inch. The younger reporters have no idea what I’m talking about. Besides, they’re too busy tweeting.

In the Knight-Ridder bureau at the Summer Olympics in Atlanta, I shared a table with Dave Barry and Mitch Albom. I sat there hoping some of their greatness would rub off on me.

I figured I had arrived when I got my own Wikipedia entry and had a sandwich named after me at Molly’s Cafe.

Call me old-fashioned, but I still used a dictionary and wore a tie to work every day.

Life has a way of humbling you. I remember one day I was convinced everyone was talking about what an outstanding column I had written. That afternoon, I was at an animal exhibit in the basement of the Museum of Arts & Sciences. There, in the bottom of the chinchilla cage, was my column from the morning paper. I’m sure I’ve house trained a lot of puppies, too.

I have always followed Charles Kuralt’s advice and taken the back roads. That’s where the stories are.

Harley Bowers was like a father to me. We traveled many places together. He kept a sign on his desk: “When I’m right nobody remembers. When I’m wrong nobody forgets.”

Bill Boyd was a saint, too. Every time his wife, Marvalene, tells me how proud he was of me, I go off and have myself a little cry.

I once had a man call and ask me to speak to a senior group at a local church. I told him I had just been there a few months ago. “Come on back anyway,” he said. “We’ve already forgotten what you had to say.”

I took great pride in the accomplishments of the Reindeer Gang. We helped a lot of folks at Christmas.

When something would happen in our family, my boys would ask if I was going to write about it. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for them when I did columns on them having to wear braces, going to the prom and getting cut from the baseball team.

I once had a lady ask how Jake was doing. “I’ve never met him,” she said. “But I’ve watched him grow up in your column.”

I have had some readers meet me for the first time and tell me I was a lot taller than my picture in the paper. That’s because my mug shot was the size of a postage stamp. They were shocked to discover I am 6-foot-1. They thought I was a little, short man.

I have been kissed by a camel. It was not on my bucket list.

Grisamore is a German name. The word “Gris” in French means the color “grey” or “gray.” So, when I write my memoirs, I’m going to call it “50 Shades of Gris.”

An elderly woman once wrote a letter to the editor and said: “I hope his wife doesn’t mind, but I love Ed Grisamore.” Delinda has always said if anything ever happened to her, every little lady in Middle Georgia over the age of 65 would be courting me.

I once wrote in a column that girls basketball should be against the law. It took a full page to print all the angry letters.

There is a tiny crossroads in Upson County called Dog Crossing. I once made fun of the place when I said it was so small it didn’t have a city limits sign. So they put up a sign and made me an honorary citizen. They gave me a key to the city shaped like a dog bone. I called my next book, “Smack Dab in Dog Crossing.”

In 1996, I wrote the Braves would beat the Yankees in the World Series. And we all know what happened. The column ran on the national wire, and I started getting letters from irate Yankee fans as far away as Juneau, Alaska. A man in Janesville, Wisconsin, told me my column was put up on a “wall of shame” at a local sports bar. So I guess I’m famous in Janesville.

Whenever I found myself surrounded by distractions. I remembered Ernie Pyle, the patron saint of newspaper columnists. He wrote stories from a bunker during World War II with a typewriter in his lap.

For 25 years, I did a traditional “What I’m thankful for” column at Thanksgiving. Two years ago, a man wrote me that he had been depressed and had been thinking about ending his life until he read my column about being grateful. I held his letter in my hands and couldn’t stop shaking.

There have been judges on both my mother and father’s side of the family. I have been a judge, too. I have judged chili cook-offs, talent shows, beauty pageants, parade floats and dog shows.

Janet Atwood was my high school English teacher. She saw something in me I didn’t see in myself. She encouraged me to write for the school newspaper. She died before she had a chance to see me become a successful writer.

I will always be grateful to Billy Watson, who hired me and kept me inspired. And to Cecil Bentley, who gave me the opportunity to write columns after Bill Boyd retired.

I continue to live my life in search of the perfect pen.

At a book signing, a lady came up and said, “I thought you were dead.” She was confusing me with Lewis Grizzard. Since he was one of my writing heroes, I took it as a compliment. At least our last names started out the same.

I never knew what the next news cycle would bring. I could be interviewing a former Miss America one day and a homeless man the next.

I am looking forward to life’s coming attractions. As the song says, “When good wind blows your way, be ready to sail.”

Friday was columnist Ed Grisamore’s final day at The Telegraph. A gallery of his work titled “True Gris: A Writer’s Life” will be on display at Vineville United Methodist Church in May and June. The exhibit is free and open to the public. Contact Ed Grisamore at edgrisamore@gmail.com.

There have been times this past week when I almost called his name, expecting to find him scratching at the back door. Or sitting by my feet on the kitchen floor, waiting for a crumb to fall.
I wanted to hear his tail thumping against the bead board and barking at everything in the alley.
Our dog, Jerry, went to heaven Sunday morning and left a hole in our hearts the size of the big pillow where he slept in the butler’s pantry.

We miss him. So does our other little dog, Harper, who roams from room to room, wondering why she no longer has to compete for attention.

Dogs probably have no concept of time, or understand death, but I am convinced they grieve and experience the emotions of loss.

They are also like our children. We always think they are the cutest and the brightest. We brag and pull pictures from our wallets. (Or scroll through the camera rolls on our cellphones.)

Jerry was not a perfect dog, but that’s OK. We are not a perfect family. He was not the first pet we have had to bury in the backyard, our tears falling on the dirt where he used to play.

That doesn’t make it easier, though. Jerry was the first stray we brought home. Rescue dogs love you unconditionally. It’s as if they realize you have saved them from an uncertain fate.

He wandered onto the playground at Carter Elementary School in 2003. His fur was as black as chimney soot. He did not have a collar and was obviously lost or abandoned. Jake was in the third grade and, after considerable pleading, puppy noises were soon coming from our garage.

The boys named him Jerry, after either Jerry Garcia or Jerry Seinfeld. He was an Australian blue heeler cattle dog, smothered with Heinz 57.

In spring 2005, I published a collection of columns called “Smack Dab in Dog Crossing.” D.C. was a real place, a tiny crossroads between Thomaston and Barnesville, not far from The Rock. The two dozen or so folks who lived there put up a city limits sign after I had poked fun of Dog Crossing for being so small it probably didn’t have one.

The book cover begged for a photograph of me with a dog. Jerry was the chosen one. Son Ed took his camera, and Jake tagged along for “dog control.” After a few posed shots of me and Jerry in front of the sign, I stood and leaned against the post, pretending to read the newspaper.

Jake started tossing dog treats to Jerry, who was running in the field behind me. Ed snapped a one-in-a-million shot of Jerry leaping through the air, and Jerry became a cover boy.

Later, Jake created a PowerPoint presentation he called “A Day in the Life of Jerry.” It was a documentary of Jerry eating, napping and living large. It captured first place in the Bibb County schools system’s technology fair.
So Jerry had his 15 minutes of fame, and them some.

In my eulogy, I would not call him an extraordinary dog. He was loyal and loving within our family circle, but he wasn’t particularly friendly. He was extremely protective, a fierce watchdog who growled and barked at anything that moved. We used to joke that our mail carrier learned to slip the mail quickly through the slot, lest he run the risk of missing a few fingers.

Jerry had his quirks. The boys even called him “psycho dog.” He did not appreciate taking a bath. He would pull paper scraps from the trash can and chew on them. (We suspected he might be part goat.) He never would cross the threshold of the den because he loathed the tile floor. When dark clouds rolled in, and the wind started to blow, he would tremble. He was terrified of thunderstorms.

His final days were sad and painful to watch. The leaping little dog on the cover of the book got to where he could not walk. His passing, in one sense, was a blessing.

I used to lean over, scratch behind his ear and wonder what he might be thinking.

I will never know.

But I do know he left this world knowing he was loved.


(Column from The Macon Telegraph, Aug. 4, 2013) Thanks for reading!!!

Jack DeMave’s eyes dance when he remembers the day Camille Smith swept him off his feet.

He was a handsome Broadway actor who had appeared on stage with Charlton Heston in “Mr. Roberts.” She was a green-eyed beauty from Macon who had taken the train to New York City to pursue a career in modeling in the 1950s.

Time and circumstance brought them together. Love kept them together.

She was in a fashion show at the prestigious Hattie Carnegie’s Couture. Among those in the audience were Jack Benny, Grace Kelly and George Burns.

Jack would sometimes go there to use the phone but mostly to enjoy the scenery. His sister was a model, which usually got him in the door.

Camille was wearing a black dress and pearls. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He was bold enough to ask her for a date and pretentious enough to tell her he had friends in high places. He said he could help her with her modeling career. What he didn’t know was she already was with one of New York’s top modeling agencies and was too modest to tell him.

She suggested they go to the famous Copacabana nightclub. Jimmy Durante was performing. Jack figured he had made a huge impression when he got them a table near the front.

When the waiter brought the check he told them “everything is compliments of Mr. Durante. He wants to see you backstage after the show.”

Jack could not believe his good fortune. Nor could he figure it out. He looked over at Camille. She shrugged.

When they knocked, the man with the most famous nose in show business opened the door and threw open his arms.

“Camille!!! Sweetheart!!!” he said. “It’s great to see you!!!”

Camille turned to Jack and smiled. He was speechless.

“I was trying to impress her and didn’t realize she had worked with him,” Jack said. “She was two steps ahead of me all night long, just as she was for 50 years of marriage. But she always did it in a beautiful way, which was one of the many things I loved about her.”

Camille was a few steps ahead of him eight years ago when she brought him to Macon and began the conversation about planning for their twilight years.

“She must have had a premonition,” Jack said. “She told me if she died first, she wanted me to be taken care of. I said I didn’t want to hear that kind of talk. But that’s the way she was, always thinking of others instead of herself.”

Camille knew Jack would be like a fish out of water in her hometown. He was from the Jersey Shore. For 45 years in show business, they had been “bicoastal,” their careers shuttling from New York and Los Angeles.

Before he met her, Jack’s only connection to Macon had been his father, the famous heavyweight boxer and original “Golden Boy” Jack DeMave, who once stepped into the ring with Macon’s own W.L. “Young” Stribling.

Everyone figured the only “South” that Jack would ever call home was Southern California. They lived in Studio City, which was 10 minutes from Universal, 15 minutes from Warner Brothers and around the corner from CBS.

They moved to Macon in the summer of 2011, not long after the death of her sister, Regina McDonald Martin. That same year, Camille was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

They moved to Carlyle Place last November. Monday will be the one-month anniversary of her death on July 5. She was 84.

They would have celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary on Sept. 16. A celebration of her life will be held at Carlyle on Sunday, Aug. 11, from 2-5 p.m. and is open to the public.

Bob Crawford, who played in “Laramie” and worked with director George Roy Hill on several films, spoke at Camille’s memorial service at Macon Memorial Park.

There was a slideshow with photographs of Camille with Elvis Presley and actor Cary Grant. (She went out with Elvis a couple of times and dated Grant before she married Jack.) There were pictures of her with Paul Newman, Robert Redford, Chevy Chase and Robin Williams.

Clair de Lune was played. It was one of her favorite songs. A woman later told Jack it was the “most romantic funeral” she had ever attended.

“Walking through life with Camille was a rare privilege indeed,’’ Jack said in his heartfelt eulogy. “She was, and always will be, the best part of me.’’

Jack’s career in acting carried him across four mediums — stage, television, movies and commercials. In the early 1960s, he was cast as Ranger Bob Ericson on the TV series “Lassie.’’ He departed the show after three years, joking that “the dog got all the good lines.’’


He played opposite Doris Day and Mary Tyler Moore on their TV shows. He appeared on “The Fugitive,” “Days of Our Lives’’ and “Marcus Welby M.D.’’ He worked with such stars as Don Rickles, Bob Newhart and Bette Davis. He once appeared in a Paine Webber commercial with tennis star Jimmy Connors and played the Lone Ranger in a series of commercials.

Camille grew up in Macon on Vineville Avenue at the corner of Kenmore Place, not far from the Georgia Academy for the Blind. Her father, Walter Ellis Smith, worked for the National Biscuit Co., better known as Nabisco. Her mother, Henrietta, was a homemaker.

She graduated from Miller High School for Girls and left home at 19 for New York, where she captured the attention of two top modeling agencies, Eileen Ford and Huntington Hartford.

Her romance with Jack was put on hold for a few years as she split time between the fashion houses of New York and film sets of Hollywood. Jack stayed behind in New York when she moved to Los Angeles, where she was put in charge of the “new talent’’ department at 20th Century Fox.

She worked as an assistant producer on the “Perry Mason Show.’’ She later was an assistant to well-known producer Robert Arthur and director George Roy Hill. She worked with actors John Wayne, Dean Martin and Jimmy Stewart.

Camille was with Hill when he won the Oscar for “The Sting,” and she also worked with him on one of his most popular movies, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,’’ with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. She and Jack became close friends with Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward.

Jack has dozens of framed photographs of Camille spread across the living room. He got them out after she died because she would never let him display them. Whenever he would sneak them to the coffee table, she would put them back in the closet or drawer. There is one of her and Elvis at a masquerade party. There is Cary Grant, with his arm around her. And a photo album of her from her modeling days, radiant with her five-car pileup beauty.

Jack said he plans to continue to live in Macon, where he has made new friends and is learning to appreciate the slower pace. He and Camille did not have children. His nephews, Tom and Brad McDonald, live in Macon and Fort Valley.

He finds it fitting that Camille would come “full circle” and return to the place where she began her life to leave him with so many happy memories.

FreeFreddieCurly FreeFreddieElvis FreeFreddieFlag

(Column from Macon Telegraph July 5, 2013)

I don’t confess to many crimes because I never commit any.

I’m going to come clean on this one, though.

I kidnapped my son’s Freddie Freeman bobblehead doll.

Yep, I went over to Grant’s house while he was away and slipped Fast Freddie out the back door.

I left a two-word ransom note, an assortment of upper and lower-case letters cut from magazines.

There were no demands in the note except “Free Freddie.’’

In keeping with modern methods of communication, I also sent a text message. It included a photograph of the empty spot on the shelf where Freddie’s head used to bobble.

Grant texted me back, expressing his displeasure with the hostage situation.

I don’t make a habit out of abducting tiny baseball players whose heads won’t keep still, but I carried out the mission. (Justice, thy name is David.) The last time I checked the criminal code, it is not against the law to reclaim something.

Freddie had been a gift from Hannah and Clay Jones, the newlyweds who live next door. They went to an Atlanta Braves game on May 30, when the first 20,000 fans received Freddie Freeman bobbleheads.

They came home with two and figured one was plenty, so Hannah asked if we wanted the other. Delinda placed it on the counter in the butler pantry, and Grant must have interpreted that as a gesture of adoption.

We turned around, and Freddie was gone. He had barely been out of the box. The body was still warm.

My kidnapping scheme was premeditated. I wanted Freddie back at our house for a few days.

Big Freddie Freeman has become my favorite Braves player. I like the way he hustles. The guy is clutch. He deserves to be on the All-Star team.

I also love how he hugs his teammates in the dugout. Lord knows, the world could use more huggers.

Freddie was kept hostage for five days. Grant’s dog, Curly, became an early suspect in the crime after I took a picture of Freddie, with a hungry-looking Curly in the background. (We did not have to rehearse this scene. Pugs can never keep their tongues in their mouths.)

There were various other random ransom photographs sent out on Facebook.

Freddie with his head hanging out the car window.

Freddie dancing with the Elvis and Big Chicken statues at Minton Lawn and Garden.

Freddie bobbing his chin in front of Luther Williams Field, where he never got to play.

Freddie sitting on top of an old tractor on Highway 26 in Bleckley County. (He did come up through the Braves farm system, you know.)

And, finally, Freddie celebrating with an American Flag for the Fourth of July, the day I had planned to send him back to Grant. We had some fun with it.

Independence Day seemed like a good time to make Freddie Freeman a free man.


(Column from The Macon Telegraph, June 19, 2013)

Friday is the first day of summer on the calendar.

But it officially arrived for me last week when I sliced into my first red, ripe tomato of the season.

I smothered it with salt and pepper, and slapped it on two pieces of white bread slathered with Duke’s mayonnaise.

I was a happy man.

Yes, I’m always a bit grumpy until that first homegrown tomato of the season arrives. I deplore the pithy imposters of winter that taste like Styrofoam. Or those spring wannabes, who disguise themselves in our salads, and may even look the part, but serve only to tease us.

They do not live up to our lofty standards.

“A good tomato,’’ actor Kelsey Grammer once said, “is like a prize.’’

I spoke at a church in Warner Robins last week. It was one of those “Keenagers” lunchtime gatherings, when everybody brings a casserole. There were bountiful plates of fried chicken, congealed salads and a group of self-appointed women guarding the dessert table.

Word began circulating about some delicious tomatoes. Everyone was wondering who brought them and where did they get them?

Tasting that first true tomato is like striking gold. Or finding a good fishing hole. We butter up our friends who have backyard vegetable gardens and pull over at every roadside stand and farmer’s market.

I did not get a tomato that day, but I did cut into a ripe one a few days later. I wiped the tomato seeds off my chin, and nobody could wipe the grin off my face.

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato,’’ writer Lewis Grizzard once said.

We normally buy honey wheat bread at our house. White bread has little or no nutritional value.

But I am putting myself on a WBD (white bread diet) for the remainder of the summer. The flavor of a tomato sandwich is enhanced when the flour is as white as the beaches at Destin.

There should be a law, or at the very least a requirement, that all “mater sammiches’’ have to be on white bread and washed down with sweet tea, the table wine of the South.

If I ever get caught jaywalking or texting while driving, and the judge sentences me to die in the electric chair, I might turn down a juicy steak and chocolate cake for a tomato sandwich for my last meal on death row. (OK, that’s probably a stretch.)

My grandfather used to roll out that first delicious homegrown tomato by Father’s Day. He always promised my Aunt Mary he would have one by then, and he usually delivered.

I get too impatient, though, like a little boy who can’t sleep waiting for the sound of Santa’s reindeer on the roof.
There is only a small window of time when a proper tomato sandwich will be on my daily menu, along with the rest of the bounty of summer — peaches, Vidalia onions and watermelons. And I won’t even try to debate whether a tomato is a fruit or vegetable.

I married a girl who loves tomato sandwiches almost as much as I do. I should have had “for Better Boys, for worse” inserted in our marriage vows.

County singer Guy Clark once wrote a song called “Homegrown Tomatoes.’’ The chorus went like this:

“There’s only two things that money can’t buy.

And that’s true love and homegrown tomatoes.”


I never see an old shoeshine box that I do not think of my father.

I do not eat a bite of macaroni and cheese without remembering my Aunt Nell, who made macaroni and cheese against which all others are judged.

When people die, they don’t really die. We all have the assurance of eternal life. But they also leave part of themselves behind.

We call them memories.

So when we hear a train whistle in the night. Or the thump of an old baseball mitt. Or smell a familiar perfume, that person is with us again.

And so it is with Johnny

There was his megaphone, the one he will take with him to that big pep rally up in heaven. There was the familiar way he walked, the way he talked. The way he grinned. The way he struggled to do the things we take for granted but never complained.

I will never chew another piece of bubble gum that I will not think of Johnny. It was how we were introduced at a Southwest basketball game many years ago.

I am proud to have called him a friend. I was glad to be able to honor him by telling his story in the newspaper over the years.

And the best way I could think of to honor Johnny today was to go out and get 380 pieces of bubble gum, ask each of you to take one in Johnny’s memory.

We are so blessed he was part of our lives.

It warms my heart when I see people reading. It is the foundation for learning. I believe we could solve a lot of our educational problems if we not only taught people how to read but an appreciation for the written word.

grislibrary5I went to the Washington Memorial Library late one afternoon last week. There were plenty of cars in the parking lot. But I didn’t see very many folks on the second floor. They were nowhere to be found up and down the rows of books. They weren’t checking out the latest in fiction, history, politics or even cooking or sewing.

They were all on computers. There wasn’t an empty seat in the computer lab. They were spread around the floor in little cubby holes, tapping into the wi-fi with their tablets and laptops.

It was disturbing. They weren’t reading. They were surfing.

It also made me wonder. Is this grand old place, with its storied tradition, becoming less of a library and more of an Internet café?

That would be sad.


(Jim Smith III has been with S&S for 70 years, since he was 11. Photo by Beau Cabell/The Telegraph)

The S&S Cafeteria in Macon has been part of my family’s life for as long as I can remember. We would stop every time we came down I-75 from Atlanta on our way to Florida or to visit my grandparents in Hawkinsville.

When I started working in Macon, married and settled down, my father always insisted on going to S&S whenever he visited. “Dad,’’ I would say, “you know there are OTHER places to eat in Macon.’’

But that didn’t sway him. He loved S&S. And I think about him every time we go there.

Of course, when our children were younger, we would sometimes go two or three times a week. Their 99-cent children’s meal is the best deal anywhere. We could feed a family of four for under $12. That’s cheaper than buying and preparing it yourself from the grocery store.

If you didn’t get to see my Sunday column on James Smith III, of the S&S, here is the link. It’s an important part of Macon’s history.


When the man told me he had joined the Air Force at the start of the Korean War in 1950, I thanked him for his service to our country.

Life in the military had taken him all over the map. He reeled off some of the places where he had been stationed. His career had traversed from Colorado to Mississippi to California, Canada, Nevada, Guam, Oklahoma, New York, Hawaii, England, Thailand and Alaska.

When he told me he had been in Portugal, I had to smile. Portugal? I know how to spell that.


I have to brag a little here. I have known how to spell Portugal since the fifth grade. I don’t have to look it up. It’s planted in my brain, stamped on my skull.

I learned the hard way.

Of course, I grew up at a time where we didn’t have spell check or autocorrect. We had to look up words in the dictionary. I came home one night with a social studies project.

We had all been assigned to write a report on different countries. I don’t know how I got Portugal, but I was soon sailing on a sea of information to the westernmost country in Europe.

I learned the capital was Lisbon. I learned about its parliament, its provinces and the colors of its flag.

Apparently, I learned everything about Portugal except how to spell it.

At 10 p.m. the night before my report was due, my mother and I made a horrifying discovery.

I had spelled it P-O-R-T-U-G-U-A-L all the way through, from the title page to the bibliography.

At least I was consistent.grismapportugaul

This was also the days before “white-out.’’ I’m sure there was such thing as “erasable bond” paper, but we didn’t carry it in our inventory.

I don’t know how or where we learned a dab of Clorox on the end of a toothpick will take out the ink. I went through wiping out every extraneous “U’’ from the Atlantic coast to the Spanish border.

I made a “A” on the report. My teacher never knew the error of my ways.

I think about it every time I see or hear the word Portugal. Or get a whiff of Clorox.


My father grew up on a farm in the Midwest.

grissuperdodgeadHis father worked the land, just as his father had. They lost everything in the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, and moved to the Promise Land of California, like something out of the pages of The Grapes of Wrath.

My uncle and his two sons still work on the family farm in north central Missouri. My uncle turned 90 a few months ago.

God bless ‘em. And thank you, Dodge, not only for the best commercial of Super Bowl XLVII but one of the best I’ve seen in my life.

If you didn’t get to see “So God Made a Farmer” narrated by Paul Harvey or just want to see it again watch here.

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